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Atop the Goliath sand dunes of the West, sun overexposing his facial features and shrouded in a cool hood and scarf. The Rogue stands there. Twin Swords unsheathed, awaiting his next challenger.
Forever he waits, until eternity for the next tourney, or an unsuspecting adventurer. Ever since he's cracked his neck he's been stuck in this limbo. Forever slaying, forever slain. It's hard, really, being made into this lifestyle by the creator - a rogue, with an oddly twisted neck, standing on top of the dunes wielding his Twin Swords.
*note the (maybe subtle) critique.
Forever he waits, until eternity for the next tourney, or an unsuspecting adventurer. Ever since he's cracked his neck he's been stuck in this limbo. Forever slaying, forever slain. It's hard, really, being made into this lifestyle by the creator - a rogue, with an oddly twisted neck, standing on top of the dunes wielding his Twin Swords.
*note the (maybe subtle) critique.